


think of the devil.

by peppermintcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10.05 coda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2624801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintcas/pseuds/peppermintcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean tells Cas what Marie had said, Cas's eyes glint—“Should we test that hypothesis?” he says, casually, squinting slyly at Dean’s face, and Dean laughs and laughs and laughs, kisses his forehead, the corners of his eyes, the base of his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	think of the devil.

“Think of the devil, and he shall appear…”

 “You’ve been thinking about me?”

“I was thinking about—the devil.”

Cas is in Dean’s room. He’s running his hands over his desk, over his bag, over the photograph Dean keeps propped up on his lamp, the old, sepia-toned one of him and his mom. Over the lamp, the stack of photographs Dean keeps tucked underneath some books. Under an antique sword Dean may have stolen from the war room. He’s smiling, a small quirk of his lips, as he glances at Dean. “Of course.” His voice is even.

“Shut up.”

"Yes, of course."

"Cas, I swear to God—"

Cas changes tack. Clears his throat. “How’s the Mark?”

The Mark. Dean hasn’t thought about the Mark of Cain in ages, hasn’t let the thought cross his mind. He’ll have to deal with it sooner or later, he tells himself. Just not now. Not when he’s coming back from—whatever he was. Demon-human hybrid, he supposes.

“It’s—” Dean frowns, rolls up the sleeve of his Henley. The Mark of Cain glowers up at him. It’s subsided a little, but it’s still raised, itching red and uncomfortable against his shirt, seeming to say, _You wanna get rid of me? Yeah, no. Good luck_. “It’s annoying as shit, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really _do_ anything, I guess.”

“We may have found a way to—to help get rid of the Mark, I suppose. Or at the very least, lessen its effects to an extent.” Cas is watching him, his eyes not leaving Dean’s face. Dean sits up, heaves himself off the bed to stand in front of Cas. The angel takes the arm that the Mark of Cain is branded on and traces his fingers over the angry, red welts; he’s not flinching, not even hesitating to touch the thing that turned Dean into a monster. “It’s just a lead. It might turn out to be nothing.”

“It’s a start,” Dean says, meeting Cas’s gaze fully. “It’s better than nothing, man. I—Cas, thank you.”

Cas looks at him for a few seconds, his hands stilling on Dean’s forearm. There’s something ridiculously fond in his voice when he responds, “You’re welcome, Dean.” His hands are going back to the Mark, smoothing the tips of his fingers over the edges. It feels like he's smearing it away; it feels like relief.

Dean thinks of subtext. Of clear blue eyes and crooked ties and large hands, cupping Dean’s bloody face. He thinks of fond looks. Quick smiles. “We had an appointment” and “Don’t ever change” and laughing with Cas outside a brothel, years ago, throwing his arm over Cas’s shoulders and pulling him towards himself. Pulling a gritty, stained trenchcoat from the water. The way his heart cracks, more and more each time, when Cas is forced to leave.

Cas is pulling away, gently, his hands trailing along Dean’s wrist. Without thinking, Dean grabs them. Puts them up, palm to palm, with his. Their fingers not quite falling together, but almost.

“Dean?”

“We—” Dean clears his throat, looks at Cas and then has to look away. “Me and Sam, we, uh, worked a case. A couple days ago. There was this scarecrow, and—and the muse, Calliope. She was planning to, uh, eat the creator of this play.

“And the play was—the play was about _us._ Like, based on the book series. The _Supernatural_ series, by Chuck. They published new ones, man. All the way up to when Sam jumped into Hell, during the Apocalypse.”

“The Winchester Gospels.” Castiel is looking strangely at Dean, at their fingers, which are slowly curling into place beside each other.

“Yeah, those.” Dean ducks his head, looks up at Cas through his eyelashes, smiles despite himself. “And there were these two girls, Kristen and Siobhan, and they were playing us. Like, you and me. They were, uh. They were hugging, and all I could ask was, ‘Is that in the play?’, and Marie said they weren’t and were a couple in real life, and but that they explored the nature of _Destiel_ in the second act, and—oh, shit, I’m rambling, aren’t I. Um. But—”

Cas is starting to smile. The edges of his lips are pulling upwards. “What’s Destiel?”

Dean blushes—he can feel it heating his cheeks. He’s blushing like a fucking schoolgirl. It’s ridiculous. “You, um. You and me. Together.”

Castiel stares at him, that stupid smile still tugging at his mouth, his stupid goddamned mouth, and Dean’s thinking a bit idly about how much he’d like to kiss the smile off his lips when Castiel winds their fingers together, finally, and leans forward and kisses Dean first.

It’s not exactly perfect. Their noses bump, and Cas’s lips end up on the corner of Dean’s mouth, but it doesn't matter because then Dean’s letting their hands ease apart to fist his in Castiel’s trenchcoat and Cas finds his mouth properly this time, and _then_ it’s fucking perfect. _Shit, there’s even atmospheric lighting_ ,is all Dean can think before Cas is pushing him, gently, back towards the bed, so that Dean is sitting with him standing between his knees, hands cradling Dean’s face, his hands resting under Cas’s coat, under his suit jacket, on his hips.

Cas is in Dean’s room, and he’s running his hands over his shoulders, over his cheekbones, over his hair. Over Dean’s arms, where he’s holding Cas steady, rubbing circles into his hip; over the nape of his neck, where goosebumps are rising in the wake of Cas's touch. Dean pulls his hands away from Cas’s hips to tug at the coat, whispering into his mouth with a certain degree of urgency: “Off, yeah? Okay?”

“Yeah,” Cas breathes back, and fumbles off the coat. Dean catches it as it falls off his shoulders, chucks it onto his chair, scoots backwards onto his bed— Cas following—and ends up with Cas propped up on the pillows, Dean straddling his thighs, taking Cas’s face in his hands and trading kisses easily, lazily. Natural. Like breathing.

And then Cas groans into Dean's mouth, and Dean can't help himself—he has to stop, has to brace himself against the headboard and drop his head to Castiel’s shoulder. He’s laughing, helpless. What had Marie said to him? “ _You can’t have subtext without_ s-e-x,” she’d told him, smirking at his obvious discomfort.  Jesus. And look at them now, making out like horny teenagers on Dean’s bed. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

Cas looks down at him, obviously worried that he’s done something wrong. “Dean?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Dean’s regained his composure. He’s cool. “Just—I just remembered something, is all. The creator of the play. She, uh.”

When Dean tells Cas what Marie had said, Cas’s eyes glint—“Should we test that hypothesis?” he says, casually, squinting slyly at Dean’s face, and Dean laughs and laughs and laughs, kisses his forehead, the corners of his eyes, the base of his throat.

\--

Sam is trying to find a book.

It’s a book about purification through blood, and Hannah’s said they’ll need it to know fully whether or not the cure she and Cas found would work on the Mark of Cain. They've canvassed through the main library in the war room, through the files in various storage closets and in the room that conceals the dungeon, but no luck. He thinks he saw Dean reading it, though, in his room. It’s probably in that stack of books Dean keeps on his dresser.

“Hang on a sec,” Sam tells Hannah. “Just—wait here, okay? I’ll be back.”

She nods, flipping through a thick volume on one of the lower shelves. “Okay,” she replies, but she’s already got that distant look on her face as she pages through the book that Dean gets too, sometimes, when he’s absorbed in something and really couldn't care less about anything else.

Sam heads down the hallway. Dean and Cas really have been in Dean’s room for a long time…

Subtext, Sam thinks, and grins.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's a wrap!
> 
> And _that_ was a really bad pun. I am so sorry. Probably both for the fic and for the pun.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~.....maybe not the pun.~~


End file.
